


The Whitechapel Vampire

by TimaeusFaustus



Series: The Adventures of Timaeus Faustus [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Adaptation, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:13:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimaeusFaustus/pseuds/TimaeusFaustus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first chapter of the first instalment of "The Adventures of Timaeus Faustus", not really a fanfic, but an addition to the Harry Potter mythos by including a Sherlock Holmes equivalent in a contemporary setting. This work does not change canon, but merely adds to it, bringing a new storyline to the universe you grew up with and viewing the world in a different light. </p>
<p>This story, The Whitechapel Vampire, opens up the relationship between the narrator, Ruth Dextra, and the man she has invited to lodge with her at 221b, Timaeus Faustus, consulting Auror for the department of mysteries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr Timaeus Faustus

In the year 1878 I finished my studies in wizarding academia and attempted to begin a small enterprise in manufacturing magical artefacts, and apparently proceeded to the Ministry of Britain's Department of Mysteries, as was the case with the majority of arcane experimenters at the time. I use the term apparently as it is of only a recent revelation that I have reasoned these events to have taken place. It is true enough that through the majority of my life growing up as a young witch in Chicago that the British departments of magical jurisprudence and research had always held my captivation, though I had always assumed that my work was rather left-field of the interests of the ministry, and thus reasoned that my résumé had not piqued the establishment's interests. 

The circumstances in which I came to realise my apparent amnesia are not important to this story, but are increasingly relevant in the events I intend to describe throughout these journals. My personal explorations into magical artificing can be collectively described as sporadic as best, with little of my productions garnering much attention from the public at large. Developments such as my 'remembrall' have been described as flippant gimmicks at best, despite the large amount of research that has come behind such implementations; the application of such schools of magic is so surprisingly difficult that any invention in these fields, no matter how benign its purpose, is a remarkable feat of arcane engineering.

Wracked with disappointment in my own achievements and burdened with a debt totalling several galleons, I found that in the Spring of 1889 I could no longer afford to pay my lodgings by myself. My landlady was an understanding witch who had never married, but simply worked as a book-seller on Diagon Alley, and her kindness towards me had not gone unnoticed, but I found myself unable to live with the idea that I would not be able to pay her fairly for the accommodation I so readily accepted from her, and as a result, began my search for a suitable lodger to share my space. 

My landlady, Miss Friedman, originally protested the move due to the recent popular murders across London since the beginning of the 1880s, though with time I was able to persuade her around to my world-view, and convinced her that, in these times, it was unwise to earn less than you were owed. It was on the morning of April the Seventeenth, doing my regular food shopping, when I came across an old academic acquaintance of mine; one Dorian Mandelson. Dorian invited me to dinner at the Old Bell in Fleet Street, a charming little muggle pub where, as Epicure's Almanac of 1815 exclaimed, “the beverages were good and the dinner charges moderate”. The conversation took a turn towards my lodging query after we had established that, yes I was still single and no I wasn't looking.

The topic came up quite whimsically. 

“So, Ms Dextra, what are you entertaining yourself with nowadays?” He asked me, sipping on an ale cider.

I remember I'd sighed, intentionally over-dramatically, rolling my eyes. “Looking for lodgers.” His eyebrows perked. “Trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable room-mates in this part of London.”

He took another sip of his drink, before setting it down with a curious look upon his face. “Interesting that you should remark so, Ruth, for as it happens an acquaintance of mine was relaying pretty much the same issue to me not two days ago. He's an arcane researcher simply looking for a place to stay, where he can pay his rent and keep the house.”

“That sounds absolutely fantastic Dorian! If he really is the kind of man you would know, and he acts as he'd say he'd act, he seems to be the perfect individual for the position. Would you be able to arrange an interview for me?”

Dorian simply chuckled, before finishing his cider. “You don't know the name 'Timaeus Faustus', do you, Ruth?”

“Should I be aware?”

“He's rather eccentric.” Dorian replied. “I'm not sure you would be comforted by the idea of the man as a constant companion.”

I set down my drink. “Why, what's wrong with him?” My mind briefly flitted back to the warning Miss Friedman had given me regarding serial killers and psychopaths. 

“Oh there's nothing wrong with him, per-say, he's just a little unusual in his ideas. Pursues many of the different aspects of both science and magic; a man that devotes so much of his time to the study of ancient rites tends to get a little... queer in the head.”

“Intends to go into professing, I suppose?” I posited, curiosity now genuinely risen. 

“I have no idea what he intends to go for.” Dorian said. “All I know is that at some point in his life he was an Auror working for the ministry, but has since given up the trade. Still wears his scars with pride, but rarely talks about the days to anybody without serious warrant for the conversation.”

“And you never asked him what his intended profession was? A man like that hardly seems like the kind you'd leave alone, Dorian!” 

“Ms Dextra, you have to understand that he's only communicative when he wants to be, and rarely talks to anybody about anything, unless their information is of use to him. I could certainly set you up a meeting, but any formal introduction of the man would have to be presented by himself, as I honestly have no grasp of how to do so on my own.”

I mused the conundrum over a second glass of wine, and by the end of the dinner had decided to ask Dorian to arrange a meeting for me at the site of Miss Friedman's bookshop, just off of the side of Diagon Alley. He bid me farewell and agreed to a meeting at 10AM the next day, all things permitting, and if the meeting was not possible he'd send for me by owl to let me know.

 

~~~

The next morning came with dun and dreary clouds in the air, and I'd discussed the meeting with Miss Friedman over bacon and eggs that breakfast. She was approving of the character up until she heard the information regarding his position as a retired Auror, at which point she hastily made me promise to store my wand in a duel-ready position so I could react at the first sign of trouble. 'Aurors,' she had remarked, 'only ever died, the ones that retire usually mean the ones that go bad, and it does not do one well to mix up with a dark wizard.'

I'd protested slightly, but I had to concede that the old matron had a particularly strong point and, lamenting the fact that a single woman couldn't reasonably expect to go throughout her day alone without anticipating some kind of trouble, fastened my wand to the inside of my sleeve. 

As I made my way to the old bookshop, I spied Dorian once more, attempting to intercede me, making quite a rush to meet me before I reached the cobble before the door. He shouted for me to stop.

“Ms Dextra! I'm glad I could catch you! I trust you're keeping well?”

I had no patience for small talk. “Are you playing for time? Spit it out, I've got a date to keep.”

He looked rather taken a-back at the sharpness of my tongue, but it was already nine-thirty and I was yet to eat since breakfast at six. The man should be aware that food is tantamount to godliness and any attempt to deprive me of it is certainly an unholy act; lunch should have been waiting for me at the shop.

“It's just, well. I appreciate you've got a date to keep, but I've just caught wind of the fact that Mr Faustus has been given a case.”

“A case?”

“A case indeed. That of the Whitechapel Vampire.” His lip stiffened in a restrained smirk, as if the news should deter me and that was in some way a success for him. 

I paused, before laughing at the man. “You mean to tell me you don't know me at all, Dorian? Firstly, I came here to get to know the man, which is best done when he's in a state I should get used to if he is to lodge with me.” I began to stride from the street towards the eave of the coffee house two doors down from Friedman's Books. “Secondly, and I say this with no hint of sarcasm – if you think a man investigating the Muggle's Ripper should deter me then you have grossly underestimated my curiosity and, finally, you stopped me in my path to a tray of tuna and cucumber sandwiches, a mistake I doubt you'd make twice, or it would be wands at dawn!” I chuckled, then, to break the tension, but Mandelson's response was short, and he hurried away quickly. I'd then thought I might perhaps have came across a little too unhinged.

Pushing through the door to the shop, I was greeted with my first sight of the man. He was around six foot, though it was hard to tell when he was huddled over the table in the dark corner, papers sprawled before him more haphazardly strewn than a teenager's dirty robes. In his right hand, he held not a quill, but a muggle pen, scrawling onto papers in cursive, while his left tapped a beat of four onto the wood of the table. To this beat he clicked his tongue, tapped his feet and, though this was preposterous, I could swear he was matching his writing pace to it. 

He would have been altogether underwhelming were it not for the near empty tray of tuna and cucumber sandwiches sitting on the desk to his left. 

“...you didn't even eat the crusts?”

He piqued, turning. “Excuse me? OH! Ms Dextra I presume?” He jumped up, bounding towards me like a puppy trying to shake my hand. 

“The crusts are the best part of the sandwich!” 

He scratched his brow, smiling awkwardly. “I'm confused, I think we're getting a little off point, don't you?”

“Yes, I suppose you're right. It's not the crusts that are important, I see you've left at least three of the sandwiches for me.” I gestured to the tray, half sarcastic.

At that he burst out laughing. “And by off point, I meant introductions, not sandwiches. Ms Dextra, my name is Timaeus Faustus, I would say it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance but I doubt you'd entertain reciprocation after my apparent theft.” 

And with that, his brow furrowed in concern. It was the last thing I saw before I collapsed.

 

~~~

I was gently shaken awake apparently five minutes later. I remember distinctly focussing on the orbs of dust in the air before anything else, and they whirled like a typhoon was throwing some unseen and unfelt weight around. Then I noticed Faustus smiling at me, holding the back of his left hand to my forehead and cup of what looked like tea in his right. 

“Don't worry, the enchantment's gone, I believe I did my best in working to remove it, your head should clear in the next five minutes.” He set the cup down by my side on the floorboard, taking a step back to give me my space and sheathing his wand in his sleeve. “Though you might want to question who could wish to curse you; a rather interesting point about you, Ms Dextra. Tell me, do all of your introductions work like this?”

I was still dizzy from the fall, so was barely paying attention – my focus was instead on the cup, the smell of which was telling me it was some kind of chocolate brew with orange. I scooped it up and sipped hurriedly, no worry for my slowly scalding tongue. 

Turning, he ignored me in favour of his work, though in hindsight I know he was only giving me space to recover and get my bearings. Framed against the light, I took him in properly – he wore a long work coat, the kind found in Bohemian circles, it flowed at the length of a robe but could easily pass for muggle clothing, belted at the waist and coloured almost like Mother of Pearl. His gait suggested an injury, leaning hard on one leg so not to overwhelm the other ankle, and his fingers were covered in glistening jewelled rings that weren't an affront, but rather, subtly set against his knuckled, almost hidden in the cuff of his sleeve. 

I could both smell and taste the burnt sage peeling off of him, and as he shifted his weight the gentle clink of glass on glass interrupted the silence; the man carried more potions than coins. There was also another smell in the air I wasn't quite used to, but recognised nonetheless.

“Mr Faustus, have you been smoking opiates in Ms Friedman's bookshop?”

“No, not at all. Why, would you like some?” He smirked, not turning from the page he held before him, which bore a moving picture of a very pale and very sinister man. 

“I don't take kindly to people using my friend's establishments as a den for that sort of thing, especially not when trust is at stake.” I replied gruffly, to which he softened and turned. 

“Well if you must know, the smell - and you have a sharp nose for having picked up on it – comes from last night, I was doing some points of investigation over the latest case the ministry has handed over to me, and I hear my mark frequents those dens. It is not my odour, more inherited, I can assure you.”

Satisfied, and with an empty cup of hot chocolate, I stood to meet him properly at the center of the room, extending a hand to shake. “Mr Faustus, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Shall we talk properly about the prospect of our shared lodgings?”


	2. The Art of Esoteric Reasoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faustus and Dextra get to know each other properly, discuss case notes, and come to an agreement.

He'd introduced himself properly after conjuring some more sandwiches and two bowls of soup out of thin air, and we took lunch in the back room of the shop after Miss Friedman returned, so not to get in the way of her custom. Timaeus Faustus struck me as the kind of man to get engrossed in his work, so I was flattered that he was taking the time out for some idle conversation, if you could call it that. 

“So tell me, Mr Faustus, what exactly is it that you do?”

He pondered for a second, before harrumphing as if he'd determined I was worthy to know. “Well, I presume Mr Mandelson told you I used to be an Auror for the ministry, but the fact of the matter is, Ruth, I still am. They removed me from the payroll because having an Auror conduct mercenary work for the Department of Mysteries never went down well with the Prophet – I'm a consulting specialist; they bring me in when they've got a rather difficult or complex case to crack, or a rather difficult or complex witch or wizard to bring in, and then pay me a commission based upon how much public damage to the myth and to property I managed to divert.”

I hesitated. “You're a bounty hunter?”

“Of a sorts, but I only do it to further my own research and because I'm infatuated with the idea of a mystery, I wouldn't worry so much that your potential room-mate has a bloodlust.”

“And what is the nature of your research, Timaeus?”

“Similar to yours, I would suspect, progress through the refinement of our current ideals.” He smirked.

“Don't be vague with me, I don't like it when people answer my questions in the same why my old divination lecturer would.”

He laughed at that, having to put down his own (rather large) mug of hot chocolate so not to spill it. “Okay, Ms Dextra, I'll pay you more respect than Cassandra Trelawney paid me. When I was a young Slytherin at Hogwarts, I noticed something rather odd in all my textbooks and all of my teachings, care to hazard a guess?”

“I did not attend Hogwarts, but instead the Illinois Institute of Imagination, so I couldn't begin to imagine.” I rebuffed, growing somewhat impatient but nonetheless intrigued.

“Ah, Triple-I,” he mused. “No, I understand. What do all of our spells and magical heritages have in common, Ruth? They're all very European. Our spells and incantations are primarily Latin, Greek and Aryan, yet when we consider this it's easy to know there are witches and wizards elsewhere in the world. Muggles have vast trade networks where they communicate their advancements in science, technology and trading, yet Wizards have no such communicative capability. I'd like to learn as much about the mysteries of the world through as many wizard's eyes as possible.”

“So your ambition is... to learn?” I posited, enjoying the simplicity of it.

“What's more beautiful in life? The more I know, the sharper a tool I can be, the better I can do my craft. Self-serving, I admit, but if I enjoy myself and encourage progress in the process,” he chuckled at the rhyme, “I'm not going to be the first to complain.”

We discussed the beauty of science for a few hours after that, I shared some of my ideas and some of the inventions I had created, and he listened with genuine interest, at one point calling me unique, something I know now is a very rare Faustian complement indeed. Around one o'clock, and out of sandwiches, I decided to round off the conversation with a more contemporary question before making my decision. 

“So you've told me about how you use obscure magic to help you with your investigations, so how about an example of your work? Who is it you're currently hunting? Dorian told me it was Jack the Ripper, but that can't be accurate, can it?”

“Jack the Ripper is what the Muggles call him, but yes. My associate in the Ministry was contacted by Robert Cecil, because Scotland Yard believe him to have resurfaced and our help would be most appreciated.”

I leant back, taking him in before expressing my doubt. “The Muggle Prime Minister?”

“Well its not as if he contacted me personally.” Faustus replied, absent-mindedly waving his wand at his mug, refilling it, before lifting it to his lips and taking another sip. We sat in silence for a couple of seconds, while he worked out the words in his head and I took in the ones he'd already said properly. Then, cautiously, as if there were ears at the door, he leaned in to confide the rest.

“I was working on the case when it first came about, and I took some samples from the Mary Jane Kelly scene in Spitalfields, it was a mess. At first the mutilation suggested to me I might be dealing with a werewolf but I snuffed that immediately when I checked the lunar timings and the fact that there was no saliva on the pieces of the victim – she hadn't been mauled, in fact, it could just as easily be a muggle murder scene, were it not for the way the killer kept getting away without a trace, despite pursuit.”

I nodded keenly for him to continue, entranced, never before had murder been so interesting to me.

“Back in December of '88, I was investigating another scene; now, the muggle police have ruled this out as a Ripper murder, but I disagree. The victim, one Rose Mylett, was found strangulated and intoxicated in poplar – there was some speculation that it might have been the Ripper, but the inquest jury, whilst passing a verdict that it was in fact a murder, concluded that there was a strong possibility she could have strangled herself in a drunken stupor.”

“So why do you think it was the Ripper?” I asked, leaning forward, so that, despite the space in the backroom, we were practically face to face, like two schoolchildren conspiring about some sort of gossip – which, in the end, I suppose that's how it felt. 

“Well here's the thing; the coroner concluded stangulation, but the man's a muggle, he doesn't know all the signs to look for. The skin around her carotid artery had been resealed, magically; not as well as St Mungo's would do it, of course, but it was definitely the handy work of a wizard. I got the chance to isolate two patches of knitted skin – the shape of two puncture marks, as if the victim had been bitter by a vampire. It was as good a lead as any, and I went back to the evidence room at Scotland Yard to look over photographs of the previous crime scenes and, low and behold, found two close-up photographs that showed the same re-sealed wounds on the victims Stride and Eddowes.”

“So you think a vampire is the Ripper, and faking other causes of death so not to cause supsicion?”

“PRECISELY!” Faustus ejaculated, leaping to his feet in excitement. “Very good Dextra, very good. Yes.” He began to pace around the room restlessly. “This would explain how easily the Ripper gets away, he can apparate. His modus operandi is easy to replicate by any accomplished wizard, too, all it takes is a little research. I came to the conclusion that we have a vampire in the Whitehall area of London who's found a way of feeding without getting caught or causing too much of an uproar!” He finished, genuinely happy with the rapport we'd created.

The satisfaction puzzled me, there was a gap in his logic. “But the Ripper has caused an uproar, the news is all over the muggle papers, and is even encroaching into wizarding communities.” 

“Oh yes, of course Ruth, but that's an uproar about a muggle murderer, not an uproar about a rogue wizard. It's a controlled burn, the vampire is hiding in plain sight by pretending to be a run of the mill psychopath.”

“Do you have any suspects?”

“One, on account of the fact that all vampires have to register with the ministry as directed in Paragraph 11 of The Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans-”

“Are you showing off?”

“Yes.” Faustus smirked.

“Continue.”

“Paragraph 11 states that Vampires must register with The Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures – there are three in London, and two have been away on leave for the past two years on account of a mutual family issue, leaving one active in the area; one Sir Herbert Varney.”

He looked rather pleased with himself, and while the news was certainly a revelation, it wasn't enough evidence to base an arrest on. We discussed this in depth, but Faustus assured me he only wanted to talk to Varney, and would bring the man in to his associate in the ministry for questioning.

“I'm very much a fan of the legal process.” He assured me, with a mouthful of battenberg. “As is my associate.”

“And who is your associate, Mr Faustus, can he be trusted?”

“She, Ruth. She can be trusted. Her name is Gabriella Lestrade. A remarkable woman, to be honest. Her parents are from China, so she was often affronted by British wizards when making her way through the ministry as though her 'oriental heritage' were anything to separate her - because let's be honest, Dextra, the word 'oriental' is a muggle invention to replace the word 'other', and I'm not one to separate someone in my world view when they stand an equal footing with me." 

Willing to test the man, but more curious, I asked ahead. "If you don't consider it important when considering her, why bring it up at all?"

"Because we in the West have a remarkable tactic of ignoring these kinds of details when they work in our favour - muggles, for example, forget one of their favourite composers, Beethoven, was of African descent. I'm not about to erase her identity out of some heightened sense of self, nor am I going to treat her differently for it because I have an absurd romance for the 'exotic'."

He spoke of her with colour in his cheekbones, and I noted there was probably more than a colleague relationship present here, but I didn't pry. Instead, I smiled, set down the plate of cake (Faustus had a remarkable quality and that was a habit of conjuring food out of thin air) and extended my hand once more, in a less than official capacity.

“You've convinced me, sir.” I beamed, as he smiled back, pulling his lips up to the corner on one side of his face and shaking my hand thoroughly. “You may move in tomorrow, and we can split the rent of Miss Friedman's upstairs apartment even-ways. You have two rooms, one for sleeping and another study, we shall share the living room, kitchen and bathroom, but for the time being my study is out of bounds to you, do you accept.”

“Heartily, Ms Dextra, I'd love to come join you, you're interesting enough. One question though, an oversight on both our parts, I'd wager.”

“Yes?”

“Which address am I moving my things to?”

“Ah,” I laughed, the information was rather important. “A fair question. I live in a delightful brownstown apartment on Baker Street, the number's 221b. I shall see you tomorrow, sir.”

And at that, I left the shop, rather excited for the developments to come.


	3. The Dragon of Scotland Yard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The relationship between Faustus and Dextra grows stronger, but more importantly, the plot revolving around Jack the Ripper thickens.

The transition from acquaintance to room-mate went rather smoothly and by mid-June of 1889 Faustus was very much comfortable in the spare room of 221b, keeping his study and his room to himself. I had not smelled any strange odours or heard any queer noises coming from his quarters, so I paid no heed to disturb his privacy over the month he was here. In all regards, in fact, it was almost an anticlimax after the warnings Dorian Mandelson had given me over lunch back in May, so you can understand my surprise when, on the 19th of June, 1889, my apartment was rocked by a small explosion followed by more curse words than would befoul the mouth of a sailor who'd stubbed his toe.

Timaeus then stumbled out of his study, covered in ash and smoke, coughing up feathers and, for all intents and purposes, looking rather silly.

“What in Merlin's beard are you doing, my man?!” I asked, rather unsure of what to make of the mess scattered over my carpet, let alone the sight before me. Despite the volume in my voice, Faustus seemed to ignore me in favour of muttering under his breath.

“Hobart was right!” he said, spitting up more down. “Flight is truly impossible without a broom.”

I took to repaying the favour, then, and ignoring him in kind, whilst I searched the kitchen for a wash cloth to clean his face and his mess. 

“Honestly!” I shouted over my shoulder while he continued to stutter and pace in circles, waving his wand above his head. “Had I known I'd be living with a child, I'd have married and taken those steps long ago!”

“Quiet Dextra! I've almost made a breakthrough here!”

“I take it as rather rich that a man making explosions in my living room should tell me to be quiet, Faustus! With such a petulant attitude, I might as well call you Timmy!”

He stopped at that, raising a finger in what would appear to be a threatening gesture, but I could hear the laughter in his voice. “Don't you dare, or I shall turn you into a frog and throw you to the Thames!”

We fell about laughing at that, each landing in our respective arm chairs before the fire whilst Faustus scoured the ash off of himself with his wand, tied to his wrist with a golden string because, remarkably, for an Auror, he was prone to dropping it around the house. When I first asked him what it was made of, he told me it was olive, with a manticore sting for the core, but I don't think I believed him at the time.

“So, Timaeus,” I started, calming down long enough to talk again, though it was touch and go after the amount of feathers the man was picking out of his nose. “How is it that I, an artificer who occasionally deals with gunpowder, has never made as much of a mess of this house as you just have in there with nothing but a wand and a pile of feathers?”

“Well, you're not going to believe me at first, but this is all to do with the Herbert Varney case.”

Leaning forward, the memories of the case notes he'd shared with me on that first day resurfaced. Over the past month I'd slowly forgotten the Auror part of him was anything more than his past, as the man seemed to do nothing more than read and write all day, occasionally selling stories to the Prophet under a false moniker. 

“Go on.” I said, all the cheer on my face replaced by intrigue. “You've made a breakthrough?”

“Not a breakthrough per se, I just discovered something. Namely, Varney's school reports from Hogwarts. Apparently, it was impossible for Varney to apparate without splinching.”

“He never learned?”

“No, never was licensed and gave up on it shortly before he left the school. Apparently he'd had his right foot re-attached no less than seven times before he lost all hope.” He winked, knocking his own wooden foot on the floorboards for dramatic effect, which has yet to fail to make me flinch.

“So what, the man can't apparate? Surely Varney could just use a broom to escape the crime scenes when being chased?”

“No go, Varney the Vampire, as he was called at school, got into a violent altercation with another student in the middle of Hogsmeade and, on account of his less-than-living state, the Ministry forbid him from owning anything more than a wand – he would have lost that were it not for his connections. None of my contacts in the black market have sold to him recently, either, and even so, to buy a broomstick off the black market isn't as easy as it sounds, you've still got to bewitch the thing yourself so that the ministry can't track the spell back to your vendor, no self respecting criminal would do you that favour.” He looked at me then as if waiting for me to catch up, before sighing and continuing. “Varney actually managed to get a 'T' in his Charms O.W.L.s. A 'T'! I've never met anybody who's got a 'T' in anything. I've known actual Trolls who can do better than a T in an O.W.L.s.” 

I distinctly remember gulping, my mind hearkening back to my arithmancy results at Triple-I. “What pray-tell did you get in your O.W.L.s, Timaeus?”

“Hardly the matter now, Dextra. Please, apply yourself, tell me what you think this means.”

I leant back in the armchair for a second, letting the situation ponder in my head before speaking properly. “It's one of three things. One, Varney has figured out how to fly, despite everything.”

“Yes, yes. Very good, Ruth. However, you'll recall the question that started this; what of the feathers? I'm finding flight a little difficult to achieve myself, and I got an 'O' in my charms N.E.W.T.”

“Two, Varney is not our Ripper.” I seemed sceptical myself at this, and knew what Faustus was about to say. To the man's credit, he seemed to only fill in the gap as a sense of duty rather than any attempt to patronise me.

“But of course we've seen the finger print evidence found at the scene, not only was Varney there, he was the only magic-capable individual in the room, so it's unlikely a plant.”

Nodding, I continued, smiling and satisfied. “Which leads us to option three; Varney has an accomplice.”

He leapt up, then, kicking dust back into the air that had settled into the rug our chairs were nestled on. “Precisely, Dextra! The only question is, who? I'm hoping Varney should hold the answers, and with any luck, Lestrade should be bringing him in for questioning any day no-”

We were both interrupted by a crash of glass on wood as the owl more tumbled than flew through the window pane which faced the main Baker Street. There were three things I noticed about the animal; one, it was a Barred Owl, so not native to the British Isles, two, it was carrying a letter of parchment on its hind leg sealed with the golden seal of the ministry and, finally, it was sleeping not, as I'd first assumed; dead.

“Oh.” Faustus broke the silence. “That's Lestrade's bird, Strix.” He said, matter-of-factly.

“Lestrade named her owl Strix?” I pondered allowed. “Doesn't Strix just mean 'owl' in Latin?”

He laughed once, sharply, while leaning over the poor thing to scoop it up and read the letter. “Yes. Sharp mind, Ruth. Not many get the joke immediately.” Faustus plucked the parchment open, cracking the wax as he did so. Clearing his throat while Strix stirred on the floor, he began to read aloud.

>   
> 
> 
> Dear Dr Faustus 
> 
> Hoping to have not caught you at a bad time, sending for you by  
> owl as this is the fastest way to contact you without using the flu  
> network, which I'm unsure your new residence supports. Are you  
> living with muggles again? 
> 
> Regardless, please attend my secondary office at Scotland Yard at once  
> I have details concerning the Ripper case that, according to the  
> Ministry, cannot wait another moment. 
> 
> Yours 
> 
> Gabriella Lestrade, Inspector General of the Department for Magical  
> Law Enforcement, Ministry of-   
> 

He cut himself off, while I considered the implications of the fact that he was not only sharing his case notes with me, but reading private correspondence to me with no sign of hesitation. A mind such as his could hardly do so by mistake.

“I always hate when the Ministry forces its employees to append the signature, as though a name weren't enough for me to know who I'm talking to.” He strode to the kitchen, setting down the letter on the hob before burning it on the ring. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled a mouse from Merlin knows where, flinging it to Strix, who was sitting rather comfortably and smug in front of the fire. Then, striding to the door, he retrieved his coat, then held mine out to me.

“Shall we be off then?”

“You mean for me to come?”

“Any less wouldn't be interesting now, would it Ruth? Come, I want to see just how far you can keep your winning streak going.”

Smiling, but still rather confused, I took my coat, pondering the exact nature of the 'winning streak' he could be referring to, before following him out the door and into the thick London air.

 

~~~

As we rounded the corner from Broadway to Victoria Street, I realised a question had remained unanswered; to be honest, a lot of questions remained unanswered around Faustus, the flow sort of took a life of its own, but this was a rather glaring one.

“So, you never said. Why the explosion?” I shouted, near-sprinting on the cobbles to match those mother-of-pearl coattails that flapped behind him like strewn wings. 

“What explosion?” He turned on his heel, walking backwards into the wind to face me, dodging the hustle and bustle of the London streets without looking as we made our way to the main doors. 

“With the feathers. The one that started all this!”

“Oh. That! I was trying to fly.” He replied, before turning, apparently satisfied to end the conversation there as we turned once again, entering the building, with Dorian Mandelson waiting for us in the foyer.

“Faustus! And Ruth? My my, this is a surprise. I thought you intended to make him pay the rent, not to join him in his craft. Don't you have a souvenir to be inventing?” The scorn in his voice was heavy now; Dorian had tried three times to ask me out for a second lunch in the month preceding, and all three times I'd dodged him rather curtly. There was no dodging him now. I was about to say something to compromise when Faustus interjected. 

“Dorian, you make a much better door than you do a window. You're standing in the way of the sign-in sheet; move.”

And with that, I finally understood why Dorian warned me off meeting him that lunch one month ago. The man never had a strong sense of wider perspective, I don't know why I was surprised.

“How's Lestrade?” Faustus continued, before walking down the corridors and through hidden offices whilst I struggled to match the pace of the two, both clearly familiar with the building. “I trust she's been keeping well?”

“Honestly Timaeus, Lestrade is the only person I've ever heard you ask personal questions about. People might talk.” In a normal conversation, that would be a joke. Dorian didn't inflect. “Besides, the woman's as mad as ever.”

Though I could not see him, I could sense Faustus roll his eyes. His curt response matched the footfalls of the wood from his leg on the stone tiles. “With your general incompetence or is this one of the times when it stretches to the wider world?” 

“It doesn't matter to me, Auror. Bureaucracy is my jurisdiction, apparently taming dragons is yours.” He trailed off, before leaving down a staircase into a basement that smelled of dry paper and even drier men. 

“Why did he call Lestrade a dragon, Faustus?” I asked, realising that my companion had now slowed to allow me to match him. I'm not a slow walker by any means, but anybody would get left behind when two six foot tall men have their feathers ruffled and wish to get the upper hand. 

“She has no time in her schedule for imbeciles,” he pointedly nodded over his shoulder down the way Dorian had left. “It's why she's the only civil servant I can stand in London.” And with that, he flung open to double doors with frosted glass, striding into an office with three men seated and one woman standing; all were wearing tailored suits. 

She turned to face him, and I saw the business-like smile – polite, but still personal, she shared with him. She smelled of old parchment and strawberries, and as if to prove why, picked a fresh one from a basket behind her, took a bite, swallowed, and then addressed the two of us. 

“Faustus, ma'am.”

“Ruth Dextra, ma'am, a pleasure.” I hurried to extend a hand, stumbling over myself somewhat, she was welcoming but still in control. 

“Gabriella this is my-” She cleared her throat. “...Lestrade, my assistant. Ms Dextra has been aiding me on the Ripper case.”

She sighed, leaning back behind the basket of strawberries, retrieving an envelope. “I'm afraid that won't be necessary, Faustus, I've received word from higher-up that the case is to be dropped. Of course, you shall have your usual fee of 5 galleons paid into your bank account, but the ministry no longer feels the case to be urgent. We, officially, thank you for your time.” She handed him the paper, which he pocketed inside his jacket, and nodded to her.

“I understand, Lestrade. I assume you'll be in touch as soon as I'm needed further?”

“But of course. Now if you'll excuse me, I have an office to run.”

“I understand, Dextra and I shall be taking our leave. Oh, and, Lestrade? Strix shall be returned at dusk, when he's properly recovered from the day's ordeal. Adieu.”

He turned heel, and we left the building in silence. It was not until we were two streets away that he turned to me. 

“What was wrong there, Ruth? You're a bright woman, tell me what you noticed.”

“You have an awfully professional relationship for someone who keeps spare mice around the house to feed her owl?”

“...not what I was expecting, nor asking for, but sharp nonetheless. No, she handed me an envelope, Ruth. It can't be a receipt for my wages, as I have yet to be paid and those get mailed to Gringott's direct for their records, nor can it be a letter of dismissal, the Ministry considers a verbal goodbye sufficient and absolutely refuses to keep records of the consulting work it commissions.”

It was a strong point, I had to concede, but I was not yet at a level of paranoia where I was thinking as Faustus did on a day to day basis.

“So why hand you an envelope?”

“Because she intends for me a secret message about the case, one that should be for our eyes only.”


	4. The Diagon Duelist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The relationship between our protagonist and her friend grows strained and grows stronger as Faustus bites off more than he can chew.

> Dear Dr Faustus
> 
> All is well with me as of late, this is just a letter to ensure the same is  
>  for you. Don't worry yourself over Strix, I can do without the owl for  
>  a few days and I know he loves spending time with you. Obviously its  
>  the experiments you curate in your quarters – he must enjoy the smells.  
>  Like a moth to the flame really. Pretty pleased with the reports you've  
>  been sending me so far, by the way, they surprised me. Here was me  
>  wondering how exciting Sanskrit enchantments could be and then  
>  you turn up with a full thesis on their applications, diagrams,  
>  etymology and all. Underestimated you again, it seems. So sorry about  
>  that.
> 
> Seems quiet lately at the ministry, the Varney case is about all that's  
>  keeping us occupied as of late. Can't complain really, as I realise the  
>  knock on effect that has for you and your income. Really, if you weren't  
>  such brass in that niche little corner of magic of yours, I'd half expect  
>  you to be destitute. I'm rambling again. Most of the time I can make  
>  these letters go on for a good few pages, but for once I'm going to cut  
>  to the chase quickly. Going over what I know and the statements of  
>  your informants, Timaeus, I've found an odd discrepancy. Every once  
>  in a while someone steps forward with information pertaining to the  
>  case, and is suddenly silenced from higher up. One would assume fowl  
>  play if they were paranoid. Under no circumstances can I officially take  
>  this higher or make a mess of it, so I'd like you to look into it for me  
>  as my personal consultant – consider it a challenge. Regards.
> 
> Sin Ceras,  
>  Gabriella Lestrade. 

The letter had sat on the table for the past thirty minutes, since we had arrived back at Baker Street. He'd made me read it aloud four times now, and I was quite unsure as to why. Pacing in front of the fireplace and tearing the envelope into gradually smaller and smaller pieces, I could see he was becoming marginally frustrated.

“What is she trying to tell us, Ruth?” He asked, for the tenth time.

“That there's someone working in the ministry who's trying to kill the case!” I shouted back, growing impatient with him myself.

“But who?”

“I'VE SAID THREE TIMES, I DON'T KNOW! DAMN IT, TIMAEUS, I'M AN INVENTOR NOT A DETECTIVE.” In hindsight, I shouldn't have yelled, but it got his attention sharpened on the fact that this wasn't as lived in for me as it was for him. I leant to the table, took the letter, and spread it out before me. “Please Timaeus, show me what I'm missing.”

He stroked the bridge of his nose, before sinking into his arm chair with a deep sigh. Shredded paper fluttered from his sleeve pockets as he relaxed. He spoke once, before leaning forward. “I'm sorry, cherish that; not many people get it out of me.”

Whilst he stood to meet me at the coffee table, I wondered to myself what kind of man could afford to be so petulant with responsibilities as simple as apologies whilst remaining a leader in his academic field. I was distracted when he removed his wand however; despite my new-found familiarity with the man, I could scarce forget the words that Miss Friedman had for me before I set off to meet him that month ago. 

Carefully, he begun to tap letters on the paper, leaving the ink there glowing faintly. I noticed a pattern; he was motioning to the first letter of every sentence in the main body.

“A...d...o...l-” I followed, croaking out each letter slowly.

“Adolphus Scrimgeour, Chief Accountant for Gringotts – a ministry run bank, of course.” He finished matter-of-factly, relaxing back into his armchair with a sigh, motioning to pocket his wand again before I stopped him, noticing something odd. 

“That's not- that's not the wand you were using earlier to clear the shreds of paper.” I stammered out, wary. “Who's wand is that, Faustus?”

“Mine,” he smirked, tapping his nose with his index finger, before covering the weapon – for that's what it was in his hands – completely. “You're getting off topic, we need to focus on Adolphus. Your focus has been lacking, now I think about it. Since we met.”

“If I wanted to be analysed, Timaeus, I'd have enlisted the aid of a physician, not an Auror.”

He rolled his eyes, before leaping to his feet and running through to his study, calling over his shoulder for me to follow him. It was the first time I'd entered the room since Faustus moved in, and as soon as I crossed the threshold I realised he'd been hiding more from me than I first assumed. Crossing the door into the 'study', I was knocked back by the scent of gunpowder and ammonia so strong that it felt like physical wall. Lining desks and shelves around the room were jars, cauldrons and other-such experiments and material components for potions and god-knows what else lay strewn across every surface – everything was in the room from strange roots, to goat's hide to dragons tooth. Faustus was on his knees in the corner rooting through papers and books of all varieties, from copies of Merlin's notes to Johannes Müller's Elements of Physiology and, at one point, I could be sure I'd spied a revolver amongst the scraps in the top shelf before it was covered with more papers. 

“I'm not going to begin to try and tackle the mess in here, just tell me what you're looking for.” I half considered holding my nose, but the smell wasn't making me feint and I was having to use both hands to keep hold of the books he was throwing at me. 

“It's- AHA!” He stood, knocking the pate of his head on the open top drawer which served to both close it and knock the energy out of him. Stumbling with the paper in one hand, he drew a wand, the same he'd used to tidy the shreds with earlier, and tapped his forehead, muttering 'episkey' under his breath, sealing the cut before falling onto a rocking chair hidden behind a mountain of strange instruments I'd either only seen in a medical lab or on graph paper whilst designing my own inventions. Coughing, he tried again, a little more sluggish now.

“I keep notes on ranking officials I meet in the ministry, this is what I have on Adolphus Scrimgeour.” He handed me the sheet. It was a blank piece of paper, save for Scrimgeour's name.

“Well that's encouraging.”

“It's enchanted parchment – I found the instructions for making this in my fourth year of Hogwarts, it's essentially a troublemaker's dream. The parchment only reveals its secrets to you if you make a predetermined promise as designed by the creator. It was under the floorboards in an old haunted shack just outside Hogsmeade, every twenty years or so another group of kids finds it and adds to the treasure pile there. It's becoming a sort of secret tradition.”

“What did you leave?” I asked, genuinely curious. It didn't seem like Faustus to share knowledge.

“Some notes I'd made on a kind of magic I was only interested in in theory, not really in practice. Transfiguration, you know, animagi and the like. I'm more interested in curses and charms myself.”

I nodded gently before moving the conversation on. “So what promise do I have to make to the parchment to read it?”

“It's simple, really. Tap your wand against the parchment and declare that you 'Solemnly swear you will do your duty'. It's not a rule, but all oaths along these lines I've seen start similar to that.”

Again, I nodded, before taking the parchment and spreading it out on the desk before me. Removing my wand, I tapped the sheet, held the tip there, and made the oath. It seemed as though ink spilled from the tip of my wand onto the page, and slowly in the swirling mass of letters and curls Faustus' distinctive cursive began to take form.

> Adolphus Scrimgeour, b.1855, May 4th.  
>  Chief Accountant, Gringotts  
>  Specialist:- Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Transfiguration  
>  Poor:- Charms, Muggle Studies  
>  Physical Weaknesses:- Blind in left-field of vision  
>  Stands 5'7”  
>  Stocky but not quick, could take punch, couldn't dodge  
>  Personality:- Cocky, diminutive. Slytherin, stereotypically. Values money. Pureblood and proud. Refuses to use or even research muggle technology.  
>  Criminal history:- None known

“When you're done,” Faustus interrupted. “Just tap your wand back to the page and say 'Mischief Managed', it seems to be a requirement for the spell to work. It'll hide the ink again, and then we can get going.”

“Get going?” I tapped my wand to the page and muttered the words under my breath. 

“To Gringotts, we've got an accountant to see.”

~~~

Diagon Alley was a flush with shoppers left and right, it made wading through the people and maintaining conversation awkward. Between the hollow wooden sound of every-other footfall Timaeus made and the loud conversations and sales pitches going on around us, it made discussion of any kind rather difficult. Gringotts was no better, really, but Timaeus still took pains to explain to me the details of a case he'd attended in Moscow a few years back.

“...and of course I had to stop this terrorist from interrupting the Overture's debut, so I couldn't stand around with Nadezhda and discuss politics over-” The noise that followed was not loud, nor was it sharp. It felt more like a deafening silence than anything, but it was offensive to the eardrums nonetheless and caused me to fall to my knees, clutching my bleeding ears in pain. In the second or two it took me to come around, I realised Faustus was standing with one leg either side of me, shielding me from harm. He held the olive wand in his right hand, poised and smouldering, and in his offhand to his side he held the other I'd noticed earlier in the day. 

Fifty meters away, crouched half in his cloak with his wand raised defensively, was Herbert Varney, who stood, and promptly yelled towards Timaeus.

“You absolute _madman!_ ” He took a step forward, and stood as if to duel, which I and the rest of the room took as our cue to clear space on the marble floor. Goblins were poised on top of every desk, not seemingly anxious, but more acting as curious spectators. “Why are you trying to kill me?”

Faustus spoke sharply and fast, as I'd noticed him do before when he saw someone as beneath him. “Oh come now, any fool with experience could tell you that was a stunning manoeuvre, not a killing curse. I prefer to take murderers into the ministry alive, Varney, the offer a greater reward that way.”

I nervously reached for my wand in my pocket and watched with bated breath. It was then, coincidentally, I noticed Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture was playing in an office somewhere deeper in the bank. 

Varney stepped forward first without speaking, for all the faults Faustus had claimed, the man certainly didn't seem unintelligent. He motioned a sharp slash through the air which sundered the marble tile Faustus was stood on, but caused no harm to the Auror, who'd raised his offhand wand to protect himself. 

Faustus was about to counter, in fact he was in the process, when a bolt shot from an unseen wand to the left, catching him off guard. It struck him square in the chest, and he dropped like a rock to the floor. Instinctively I skidded out to greet his assailant, and raised my own wand against the gaunt man approaching from the corridor. 

“Put it away, young lady. Only Faustus stepped out of line today, don't make me put you both down.” He raised his wand as if to add weight to his words, but in the moment I'd taken it as more than a threat and raised my own. 

“Stupefy!” was shouted from two mouths in the room, my own and Varney's. The unknown man approaching protected himself whilst I was caught unguarded. The last memory I have of the event is my temple striking the floor, causing me to black out.


End file.
